


The first and last time Fitzsimmons slept together

by valantha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Developing Friendships, Established Relationship, F/M, Fandom Trumps Hate, Firefly References, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hints at season 5 finale, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 01, Rain, SHIELD Academy, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-05 00:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16357034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: The first and last time Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons slept together.My very, very late Fandom Trumps Hate fic for engineerleopoldfitz





	1. First time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [engineerleopoldfitz (aching_for_distance)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aching_for_distance/gifts).



It was cold, it was rainy, and Jemma was miserable. Yes, coming from Sheffield she was used to the rain, and the cold to an extent, but three weeks of incessant raining -- dripping at the minimum -- and the lack of sun was getting to her.

It just wasn’t natural!

In fact, it might not be...

With everything she’d learned in her first semester and a half at the S.H.I.E.L.D Academy, the more she was realizing that there were more things in heaven and earth than modern science could explain. Not that meteorology was a _real_ science.

Jemma made a mental note to mention her hypothesis to Dr. Wenklebram, the Inexplicable Events professor.

Then she attempted to turn her attention back to Professor Vaughn’s assignment. After a few minutes she gave up.

She was too hungry and the reading was too dull. The first weeks, which focused on the Strategic Scientific Reserve era, was interesting enough, but reading heavily redacted after-action reports or banal technical reports from the ‘60s was boring. She almost, _almost_ agreed with her lab mate Fitz that Professor Vaughn’s class was best spent catching up on sleep.

Now she couldn’t do anything about the dullness of the reading, but she could solve the other issue, her hunger. The cafeteria was halfway across campus, a long ways in the freezing rain, but Fitz’ residence hall was just across the quad and he always had _something_ he classified as “food.” Typically it contained half the recommended daily amount of sodium and several interesting, if unappetizing, preservatives. But right now that beat getting utterly soaked despite raincoat, umbrella and Wellies.

Jemma donned an oversized, grey, cable-knit sweater, which had probably been Fitz’ originally but certainly wasn’t his now, her rubber boots, and finally a bright yellow raincoat. This had been gift from her mother, who thought she’d had a nervous breakdown and left science as per S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cover story. How fluorescently colored outerwear would help was beyond her, but her mother had a logic all her own.

Jemma grabbed her slightly damp umbrella and shut the door to her room on her way out. When she reached the entryway she snapped her raincoat shut, unfurled her umbrella and mentally prepared herself.

The rain appeared to be falling steadily at a 15-degree angle, she adjusted her umbrella accordingly and without further ado she pushed the door open and strode into the rain.

She cut a diagonal across the waterlogged lawn of the quad, trading muddy boots for less time in the deluge. When she reached the entrance to Fitz’ residence hall, protected by a small overhang, only her left leg between the raincoat and boot was wet. Fairly successful, she thought after swiping into the residence hall.

She stomped off most of the mud and shook off her umbrella over the large doormat. She and her Wellies squeaked their way to Fitz’ second floor room.

She knocked.

“Yeah?” Fitz shouted.

She tried the door; it was locked.

“It’s me,” she replied.

She could track his progress through his cluttered room via sounds of crumpling paper, clatters and even one umpf. If she didn’t know him so well, she’d be concerned. As it was, he was just being Fitz.

He reached his door and opened it. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Were we supposed to meet to work on our chemistry project?” he asked.

“No, that’s tomorrow. I just came over to see if you had anything to eat. I can’t focus on Professor Vaughn’s assignment and I don’t want to go all the way to the caf.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He stepped aside so she could enter.

“Thanks.” She tried not to step on any of his blueprints, sketches or homework assignments with her damp boots.

She bent down to pick up some of the papers strewn about. There was more laundry on the floor –- ranging from socks and sweaters to boxers and the odd tie -– but she didn’t pick that up. For one, she couldn’t tell what was clean and what wasn’t. And two, she wasn’t Fitz’ maid!

Once she was far enough in, Fitz closed the door behind her and followed in the path she cleared.

“Wet one eh?” he said.

“Indeed. Though they’ve all been wet recently.”

“True.”

She piled the papers she’d gathered on his desk and took off her raincoat, hanging it over the desk chair.

Fitz stared at the brightly colored eye store for a moment before saying, “So, food?”

“Yes please,” she replied, exercising her civility in not mentioning that they didn’t really share the same definition of “food.”

Fitz went to his illicit microwave and pulled out a plastic tub with his stash. He offered her first pick. The tub contained candy bars, bags of crisps, packets of biscuits, a Chef Boyardee monstrosity, an old reliable Cup O’ Noodles and can of baked beans.

She selected the can of baked beans and a bag of crisps that proclaimed they were “baked” but still had plenty of sodium.

“Thank you.”

Fitz turned slightly pink and shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

She poured her beans into a coffee mug Fitz had snagged from the caf and heated them up.

She spotted a slightly battered apple she’d forced Fitz to take from the cafeteria four days ago hidden under several layers of papers. She fished it out, considering whether it would be worth it to force him to eat it. Probably not. More than likely it was mealy and would only further sour him on fruit in general. She’d been teaching him what proper food was.

While she ate her makeshift and somewhat balanced dinner, they talked about assignments, classmates, and whether or not the weather was natural.

When she was scraping the remnants of gravy from the mug the topic of conversation was whether or not it would be worth it to go see National Treasure in the theater. Fitz thought it would be fun –- Templars and treasure and stealing the Declaration of Independence (or what he called the declaration of whinging by those ungrateful colonists). Jemma didn’t see the appeal.

Fitz only rambled on about Nick Cage and his complete filmography for maybe five minutes –- Con Air taking a whole minute by itself –- before he let the topic drop. Jemma didn’t mind, she knew she could also focus intently on a single subject, but she preferred it when he chattered about topics she knew something about, like monkeys or engineering. Then they could ramble together.

After reassuring him that she wasn’t bored -- she just didn’t know anything about the subject – she brought up Firefly. Fitz had introduced her to the show the previous weekend and she hadn’t been able to find DVDs on Amazon or episodes on any (legal) website.

Fitz’ demeanor shifted immediately. “Oh yes. You’ll love this next episode! Kaylee gets to go to a ball!”

Jemma smiled. Kaylee –- the engineer –- was _Fitz’_ favorite character. He seemed to think that because she was his favorite, obviously she would be Jemma’s too. Jemma hadn’t settled on a favorite yet. In her heart she wished she could be as badass as Zoe, but knew the awkward yet caring doctor was basically how people saw her.

Fitz pulled up the next episode on his laptop. Jemma stopped herself from analyzing how he’d gotten the episode. What she didn’t know couldn’t give her a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Jemma cleared a larger spot on Fitz’ floor, next to his bed, and Fitz propped his computer up on his chair and they settled in, leaning against the bed.

When the episode was finished Fitz paused his computer and looked at her eagerly.

“It was great, I loved the part where…”

Fitz interrupted, “…That old guy helps Kaylee show those bitches their place?”

“That too but…”

“…When Mal stabs Atherton, again?”

“Yes, that was my favorite.”

“Me too.”

As they shared their favorite quotes, Jemma wondered if she could pull off a slinky dress.

Fitz queued up the next episode and the next and the next. After Mal came back and rescued Simon and River, they moved up to Fitz' bed and he settled the laptop on his blankets over their legs.

Fitz fell asleep during “Jaynestown” and Jemma was so tired moving the laptop and disentangling herself from the covers only to walk across the quad to her room seemed like too much work. Sleepily she closed the laptop and snuggled against him.

“No, _this_ is what going mad feels like,” Fitz muttered.


	2. Last time

Fitz pulled his wife away from the lab. She’d been working on Coulson’s serum for 18 hours straight and she desperately needed sleep.

One of the promises they made to one another after The Doctor… after He made his appearance was that they would take care of one another, help each other keep things in perspective, even during extinction-level events. Making sure she slept and ate might not be quite as critical as making sure he stayed himself, stayedLeo, but it was important. Especially to him.

So he dragged her away, unaffected by her protestations.

“Just two more hours Fitz, then I’ll take a nap.”

She’d said the same thing _three_ hours ago. And even though Coulson’s life hung in the balance, they both knew that she’d be far more productive after some sleep, as much as she’d tried to deny it in the moment.

He handed her a plate of beans on crackers. The Lighthouse didn’t have much beyond non-perishables, but it did have those fundamental ingredients. The beans were American-style, sweet and tangy, but they’d actually gotten used to the taste over the years.

Jemma took the plate and kissed him on the cheek in thanks. He sure could get used to that expression of gratitude!

She focused single-mindedly on eating, trusting him to open the doors and operate the elevator between the lab and their room. It had been more than eight hours since she’d accepted Fitz’ last work-interrupting meal.

Jemma had polished off the plate -– all but some bean gravy on her upper lip –- when they reached their room.

He stopped, pausing in front of their room. He wiped the errant gravy off with a finger. He licked his finger and then kissed her, the sweet and savory flavor rich in his mouth.

She returned his pressure, but didn’t deepen the kiss.

Fitz got the message and allowed the kiss to come to a natural conclusion. Jemma needed to sleep, not _sleep_.

He opened the door, feeling his face heat despite himself.

Jemma ran her hand along his arm as she stepped through the open doorway. He knew it was her way of softening the blow, of showing him she still loved him. He smiled and closed the door behind them.

She kicked off her boots, pulled off her dark purple v-neck sweater and shimmed out of her jeans.

Fitz couldn’t remember ever seeing anything quite as breathtaking as his wife -– his wife!!! –- standing un-self-consciously in her dingy knickers and plain bra.

She had stretch marks and scars -– from Maveth and missions -– a line down her spine from her scoliosis surgery and a yellow-green bruise on her thigh from who-knows-what. Each mark, each so-called ‘imperfection’ shouted to the world just how strong and indomitable the woman who agreed to be his wife was.

Jemma pulled on the overlarge t-shirt she used as pajamas and noticed him staring. She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a saucy wink.

He laughed for the first time in ages. Yes, this magnificent woman _had_ actually agreed to be his wife.

She smiled back at him before crawling head first into bed, burying herself under the pile of Army surplus blankets.

After a moment her head popped out. “Well, are you going to join me, or just watch like some creepy stalker?”

He pulled off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his belt and pulled off his trousers before joining her in their lumpy, small and marvellous bed.

It took them a few minutes to get settled.

After Maveth, she needed to sleep with her back against the wall. After being held by General Hale, he needed to sleep close to the door. He lay on his back and Jemma curled around him, one hand under his lower back, her head on his chest and her legs entwined with his.

Really she was like a clingy starfish -– not just a normal starfish, but an extra clingy one -– and he had trouble falling asleep like that.

Alistair had never been very tactile, and except for during sex neither had Ophelia. He _knew_ that outside the Framework, in real life, he and Jemma had never been afraid of casual embraces but he still was still working on reconciling his two different lives.

He lay there staring at the ceiling, comparing his childhood with Mum versus his childhood with Alistair. That lead to thinking about their pre-destined daughter and wondering how he -- or Jemma, but more than likely himself -- messed up during her childhood such that she’d marry an utter imbecile and give birth to a Deke.

On the off chance that time _could_ be changed, he considered how they might better raise their child, even given the limitations of living in the Lighthouse. Perhaps he should hide a microscope and some GoldieBlox kits in the Lighthouse for her? But perhaps he’d done that before and it hadn’t done a bit of good. Perhaps he should do something completely different... like stockpiling beading kits and Barbies? Perhaps their daughter wouldn’t share their interests and he needed to accept her as she was… or rather as she might be. Perhaps him expecting a clone instead of a unique individual is what would harm their daughter...

Eventually Jemma’s breathing evened out and her grip eased up slightly.

He waited another thirty minutes until he believed she would be in a deep enough sleep and slowly began to extract himself. He knew over the night she’d find her way back, but until then he replaced himself with a pillow and inched over to the edge of the bed, apart but for two fingers pressed to the pulse point of her wrist, sufficiently separate for him to feel comfortable but close enough for him to know she was still with him.

And then he slept, listening to the even breaths of his wife.


End file.
